Underestimating the Joy of the Mundane
by CompanionToMisterHolmes
Summary: "...you underestimate the joy of someone's presence being enough to excite the mind." He could hear the smile, the disbelief that he could even contemplate such things, in her words; he, in fact, knew exactly that joy, she was standing right in front of him. From a lovely anon prompt on Tumblr. Sherlolly. "For once, I just wanted to pretend like I mattered."


**from a lovely anon prompt on Tumblr. I think the growing Sherlloly love was reason for it's rather lovely reception on there. I quit liked it, the idea was so simple and sweet, so I thought I should pop it on here.**

**Especially as I haven't written in a while. Sorry.**

**Prompt: Wondered if you take prompts? If so, could you do a Sherlolly one based on something a friend said? Quote is "For once, I just wanted to pretend like I mattered." If you can't/dont want to, thats ok. My friend ships sherlolly a lot and loves your stories! Thanks!**

* * *

"A date with Stuart from the library, Molly? How nauseatingly predictable."

"Well I happen to enjoy a bit of nauseating predictability once in a while, I can't go my whole life bouncing from one interesting murder to the next, like some people. I need to start finding routines, reveling in the mundane days. Sharing a little bit of predictability with someone can be the most fantastically exciting thing." It occurred to Molly as she rambled that her voice was holding strong, her tone almost mocking as it can be between comfortable friends, and that she was excessively thankful that she could now class Sherlock in that vein.

"You underestimate the fantastically exciting nature of London's grim underbelly." Sherlock droned, but the spark in his voice, the one that shouted 'it's Christmas' at the thought of a triple homicide, tinged the edges.

"And you underestimate the joy of someone's presence being enough to excite the mind." He could hear the smile, the disbelief that he could even contemplate such things, in her words; he, in fact, knew exactly that joy, she was standing right in front of him. "I'll see you next week, it's my weekend off so Rupert's covering all the daylight shifts and Kathy's the nights."

"I could have deduced that Molly. In fact I did." Sherlock intoned.

"I know, but last time you deduced me having some time off you got _all huffy_ that I didn't also inform you."

"I do not get 'all huffy', your lack of presence was highly inconvenient. As is…" But Sherlock's words were lost to the form moving out of the doors and into her office to pack away her day.

* * *

"So your work in pathology, I suppose that involves a lot of gore?" Stuart spoke with a genuine interest, unlike any other date, he hadn't diverted from the subject of her work.

"Not as much as you would think, well, there's quite a bit, but it's not on a daily basis, there are more natural causes that are passed through by relatives in need of closure." She hadn't meant to, but her last words had created a somber mood, it was meant to be a quip about the amount of paperwork, not the saddening fact of a families need for closure.

"That must be difficult." It was sweet, the tone of his voice comforting, but she had to wonder why he'd continued with this line of thought. A conversation about the depressive nature of death was neither the reason she chose her job, nor date appropriate conversation, surely.

"Oh, yes, it's a mixed bunch down there, but a grieving family is by far more heart wrenching. But let's not talk about that, the paper work's more hellish than anything." She giggled, a giggle that was promptly halted at the mid-point by something that passed Molly's line of vision, they were in a restaurant, a windowed wall facing out onto the bustling London street, but Molly would notice that shock of black curls that bobbed past the window a mile off. And if he was here because he wanted her assistance in the lab, he had another thing coming. Her phone beeped, well made a disgruntled cough. Sherlock's throat clearing, not her choice of ringtone she assured anyone who'd asked, but that cheeky bastard had changed it, hacked into a program holding layers upon layers of, to her, nonsensical computer code, and made it unchangeable.

"Sorry, I better check this, could be work. I'm on call." She wasn't lying, Molly was on call. She plucked the phone out if her bag, ignoring Stuart's clear confusion.

"Can pathologist's be on call?"

"Well yes, they can. If there's and emergency, a lot of bodies may need to be cleared fast. But I'm actually on call for Oncology, some of the staff are on strike, and I happen to also be qualified and licensed in that field." Molly didn't like that she sounded to be bragging, in her own mind at least, but Stuart's eyes grew as his jaw slackened, clearly impressed.

"Wow." He breathed.

**Molly I need your assistance. The lab is filled with imbeciles. Kathy won't let me use ****_my_****microscope. -SH**

She could practically hear the wine in his voice. _How he managed that I don't know._

**That would be because it belongs to the hospital. They're not imbeciles, they are qualified professionals. And no you don't. - Molly.**

Her reply may not have been quick, a simple 'no' really should have sufficed, but with Sherlock a longer answer left less possibility to argue. A straight refusal would never work.

The conversation with Stuart began anew, they talked about the stuff you only really cover on dates, well, in such a blocked quantity. She appreciated the look in his eyes; the interested gaze as she spoke passionately about her never lost, but not always flourishing, love of literature. He seemed fascinated, but as she equally gazed upon him, throwing him questions of his interests, the passionate spark that bubbled in her belly at the sound of a book's spine finally cracking, or a fresh cadaver with the words 'unascertained circumstances' written under cause of death, didn't seem to grasp him, not about anything he'd claim to enjoy. He was listening though, that was nice. Her phone 'coughed' again, and she couldn't say she wasn't slightly relieved. Maybe she was genuinely needed…

**I disagree. Mycroft donated the microscope, it's mine. He said so. A piece of paper from a less than adequate university does not make someone professional. And yes I do, Kathy has locked the lab, I need your card key. -SH**

Maybe not.

Her card key. Not even her presence was required, but her f-ing card key. That was it; she was leaving this sub-par date, with the promise of more, because at least he listened. _And maybe that's the best I'll get on the wrong side of thirty._ And she was going to give Sherlock bloody Holmes a piece of her mind, and, an almighty slap round the face for good measure.

* * *

Sherlock looked down at his phone, his smile stretched enough that the dimples in his cheeks begun to form, he'd walked past the restaurant a few times, but when he saw Molly had noticed he finally texted her. There was no need for her to be on a date with that drag of a man, her presence would be much more appreciated with himself, he was providing a get out. Or so he'd thought, until her first reply, but then again Molly was one to hold fast. _A second text should do the trick. _He waited a few moments, wanting the tedium of the other man's presence to really sink into Molly's thoughts.

His phone made a light happy noise, something he'd decided should fit Molly more aptly than the monotone bell he had for everyone else.

**Fine. - Molly.**

Sherlock's grin broadened, showing the slight glimmer of his teeth. _I win. _

* * *

Molly had left the restaurant in an orchestrated hurry. Pretending the oncology department really had called her was easier than any other explanation, especially the truthful one.

When she spotted the infamous coat and scarf just across the pavement, she stormed into his personal space, raised her hand and connected it swiftly with his perfect jaw.

* * *

_I don't win? _Sherlock glanced down at the petite pathologist, confusion written in his features, and a rush of blood forming a red mark on his cheek.

"For once Sherlock. I just wanted to pretend like I mattered. To someone, anyone. And you dragged me away from the first person, in years, who could at least feign enough interest that it seemed like I did. All for my, sodding, card key." Molly tried to calm her breath, for the second time in that long day pleased with herself at the fluidity of her words. Her breath though maintained its erratic rhythm.

He realised then, somewhat late, somehow at just the right time, just how his actions, especially spanning the past months could have been misinterpreted. _What did Mycroft call it? Courting? '_Courting' did not come naturally to a man like Sherlock Holmes, and this evening was yet another slab of proof to add to an ever increasing pile. He reached into his inside pocket, pushing aside one of Lestrade's badges and pulling out a key card.

"You stole my key card?!" As Molly's voice rose again her hand correlated. He flipped the offending item over just in time, a poorly taken passport photo of a very _grumpy _Sherlock shone in the dim light of the street, set in the plastic. It read all the obligatory St Bart's identification, alongside the words:

**Sherlock Holmes **

**Lab/Morgue Assistance**

Molly lowered her hand, partly from shock, partly from embarrassment, mostly so she could cover her mouth as the peels of laughter began. Sherlock blew out his relief through his teeth and the 'o' that his lips had formed, and then upon hearing the muffled amusement his face fell into the spitting image of the photo on his card.

"I'm sorry." Molly prevented her laughter from continuing. "Sorry, it's just… you're my assistant. My assistant. I should be the one who's always bossing you around."

"Mycroft's name can only get you so far. I'm hardly a qualified pathologist, but a graduate chemist does entail something."

"Your just… I'm your… Boss?"

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded like a reluctant 'yes', but when she asked him to repeat he simply stated something nonsensical about not being on the payroll so she could hardly be his boss.

"Wait. Wait. If you have a godforsaken key card, why did I just leave my date? Why did you text me?" It was the cold that hit her, kicking her mind into gear and placing together each piece of the puzzle.

"The same reason I have always requested your presence. Not only is your input invaluable, but you… your presence is not unenjoyable. I want you… To be around, you. I have um, been attempting to, ah, court you?" _That wasn't a question a moment ago._

"Oh. Oh. Oh. I guess that explains some things. A few things. A lot of things." She was a little dumbstruck to say the least.

"You see Molly, you don't have to _pretend_ like you matter. That is simply ridiculous. You do matter, hugely, immensely, to St Bart's, to the scientific community, to the world at large. To **me**." And there was that glint, the passionate bubble that sits at your center, bursting anew with every utterance of the passion's existence, the something that Stuart was lacking, that was so fruitfully abundant in Sherlock Holmes. Except for once he wasn't talking about an intriguing murder, or an unsolvable case, he was talking about Molly.

* * *

Molly Hopper may not have believed it immediately, once she'd not believed it at all. But she mattered above all things in the heart of a famous Consulting Idiot. And he spent every new day, around cases and scientific endeavor, proving it to her. Reveling in mundane days.

* * *

**P.S. I have until recently always endeavoured to respond in thanks to all those who have followed, favourited or commented upon any of my stories or me in general. I want to continue this desperately, but am 143 emails of the kind behind along with the numerous months that have paced since my last session of thanks.**

**I want to thank you all now in advance for all the things. I love each and every one of you, and one day you may even get a pm to say so. May take years.**


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